


Athazagoraphobia

by GhostCrumpet



Series: Fear and Loving [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Being Saved, F/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Rescue, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 10:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13588086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostCrumpet/pseuds/GhostCrumpet
Summary: Athazagoraphobia - the fear of being left behind or abandoned.What good is a fear if it's just going to happen to you anyway?(Infinity War-ish if you squint. I haven't seen the trailer, but I'm sorta taking some liberties here in what I think is happening.)





	Athazagoraphobia

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Zephr for being a sexy beta. Thanks to Meri for the "sinspiration".

She felt like Anne of Green Gables, waiting at the train station. Except Wakanda wasn’t a train station. Still, she was out of place, and her dress was grubby from twenty-seven hours of travel and the fear sweat she’d shed when her savior’s car had come under a hail of bullets. There was also a little bit of cigar smoke clinging to her skin. Logan, brusque and quiet, had driven for fourteen hours straight, the blood still dripping from his hands after he’d rescued her. He’d dropped her off, in nothing but the floral gown that Ross liked her to wear to garden parties, and she’d been picked up by a cloaked airship. The flight to Wakanda had been tense. She was so very, very  _ short _ , and pallid, like an albino fish, compared to her benefactors.

Months with Ross had taught her to speak only when spoken to, so she’d stayed quiet, dozing for the most part, the thin warmth of a survival blanket tucked around her body. That was how she’d ended up feeling like Anne, sitting on a bench in the hallway outside of  _ his _ room. Dropped like a parcel or an express letter, waiting to be picked back up again.

Life had blown her around, a ragged little leaf on the breeze, for the last eight months, and finally she was coming home… or as close to  _ home _ as she was ever going to get.

The sound of booted feet made her tense, and then he came around the corner. His hair was just a touch past his ears, curling out along his jaw, and a thick thatch of hair covered his face. His muscles were, well, muscle-y as ever, testing the boundaries of his dark-blue suit. He froze, blue eyes going wide.

“Darcy,” he whispered, her name an ache in the back of his throat. A few long paces, and he had scooped her up, pressing her into the rough fabric of his uniform. Her fingers skated along it, and in her mind she offered it a little blessing, for keeping him safe. He was still here to hold her. “You’re shaking,” he said, his hand cupping her cheek to make her look at him. Hot salt liquid beaded up on her lashes.

This moment, this one moment, had kept her sane for months. Every time she’d smiled for Ross’s guests, every time he’d grabbed her by the wrist and pinned her against some solid surface, she’d thought of Steve. Let it be Steve’s hands that held her down, that left her covered with bruises where the high society wouldn’t see.

And now it really was him. She sighed and closed her eyes, letting tears streak down her face. It was a relief, to be able to cry. Steve wouldn’t ever hit her for it.

His arms tightened around her, and she felt the soft brush of his lips on her forehead, the light press of his beard and mustache around the kiss. She relaxed, and he held her tight.

“Let’s get you inside,” he murmured. She nodded into his chest, resting. She could finally, finally rest.

His chambers were sparse, and uniform-neat. He poured her a glass of ice-cold water, then produced a warm, wet cloth and wiped her face with it. He didn’t ask too many questions, and she was grateful for that. There was a shower, and while she washed away the travel grime and memories, a new dress appeared for her, hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It was a wrap dress in deep purple, meant to suit many different people of different sizes, and it slid around her body with the kiss of soft, fluttering satin. It took her a moment to realize he hadn’t bothered with underwear. A flutter of heat in her belly, so foreign after many months of not wanting to be aroused at all, made her shiver.

 

When she stepped out of the steamy bathroom, he was waiting. His fingers caught up in her wet, lank hair. She opened up to him, arms coming around his neck as she kissed him. His hands were rough on the sides of her neck, tracing the hem of the dress as it framed her breasts.

“I missed you,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t,” she begged. “I don’t… let’s… let’s pretend there’s nothing to be sorry for.” A sort of muted understanding grew in his expression, and his next kiss turned hungry, almost demanding. She answered it, her tongue licking into his lips. His hands cupped the small of her back, pulling her into him. There was the unmistakable hard line of his cock against her belly; no uniform could ever deny  _ that _ part of his anatomy no matter what.

He pulled back, to walk her into the living area of his little apartment.

“You hungry?” he asked, although there was a fire in his eyes that she didn’t want to ignore long enough to grab something to eat.

“No,” she whispered.

“Good,” his voice was rough and he kissed her again, hands going down to cup her ass. She arched into his touch, wanting more of it, more of him. She needed this absolution, as much as she’d needed to shower, she needed his hands all over her, erasing the history of abuse and torment that had kept her in a tight grip for too many months. His mouth left hers to trail down her neck and she went with it. His lips were so hot after the cold-wet of her hair.

He was rocking his hips into hers, slowly, but the buried sense of urgency there made her want to beg him to just take her already.

She’d been impossibly wet from the first kiss, her body responding to the one person she truly loved more than anything. His hand curled between her thighs from behind, two fingers stroking over the soft, damp flesh of her pussy.

He made a low noise, like a moan, and she whimpered when his fingers slipped into her to the first knuckle. The movement was one of ownership, and maybe other women would have protested, but to her it just felt right. She was his, and she happily, willingly gave herself over. She shifted her thighs apart, and he sighed, his fingers tucking deeper inside of her. She flared her hips out, wanting more, desperate for him. He chuckled and nuzzled her temple affectionately. Everything else was forgotten. Nothing mattered but him, this moment with him. He turned her, slipping his slick fingers from between her legs as he did, and she whined in protest.

“Greedy,” he teased her. Well, so what if she was? She pouted up at him, tilting her head back far enough so she could actually see his face, and the dark smile he wore filled her belly with molten desire. The push didn’t take her by surprise, but she tumbled over the arm of the couch anyway, gasping as his hands pushed her dress up, over her ass. His thumbs tucked under each thigh, and twisted outward, exposing all of her to him.

She moaned before his mouth descended on her, and his tongue sliding along her pussy made her clench down. He held her, pinned to the couch, her fingers scrabbling against the smooth, gray fabric, as he licked her almost aimlessly. His tongue slipped into her entrance, and he moaned again, the hot air of his breath warming her slick skin. She whimpered, squirming, desperate to get more pressure where she needed it, but he refused to give in. He teased her for what felt like an hour, holding her steady, his tongue unrelenting until she whined out,

“Stop being so  _ mean _ .”

He paused in his light, gentle flicks, and cold air against her pussy made her shiver as he pulled away.

“Mean?” he asked, gravel and unholy  _ promise _ in his voice. There was soft  _ zhuuup! _ of his zipper coming undone. His hand came into the middle of her back, pinning her down on the arm of the couch. She was grateful for a few, plain throw pillows that pressed up against her belly and chest, supporting her. She felt the brush of his uniform against the backs of her thighs, rough and stiff.

Then he entered her in one thrust. She hadn’t even felt the first press of his cock on her entrance before he was inside her. She moaned, jerking as her body fought the intrusion, muscles clamping down both on instinct after Ross’s rough handling of her, and because it felt  _ good _ to fight him.

Steve’s fingers dug into her back through her dress, and she gasped when he withdrew, one long stroke that lit her on fire. Her feet kicked up for a moment. Everything in his apartment was Wakandan-sized, and not so incidentally Steve-sized, but definitely not Darcy-sized. Her toes barely grazed the carpet when he rocked into her.

It was so, so good. Each thrust, the weight of his hand on her back, the rough scrape of his uniform against her ass and thighs. This was where she was meant to be, being pleasured by him, being taken by him.

“Steve,” she cried out into the couch cushions, the edge of one cushion promising to make a thin indent in the flesh of her cheek. His hand lifted off her back for a moment; she could breathe again. Then he brought his palm down, leather glove and all, glancing off her ass. She shrieked and tensed around him, and he grunted.

“Fuck,” he sounded gone when he cursed, his hand fisting in the rumpled fabric of her dress as he held her down and his thrusts intensified. Her toes lost the ground with each inward thrust, and she whimpered, trying to get purchase to push back against him but couldn’t. “Fuck!” His back bowed, she could  _ feel _ it as his hips pressed into her ass, and the warm, hot pulse of his orgasm flared inside her. She treasured it for a moment, which was maybe weird and gross but it was  _ him _ . She shuddered as he pulled out, heart aching that it was over so quickly. She shifted to get down on her toes, get up, maybe.

“I don’t think so,” he growled as he bent over her, pushing her back down again. She squeaked, a sound that dissolved into a groan when his fingers pressed up into her. Three, all together, no warning. She cried out, insides aching but needing it at the same time. “You’re gonna stay… right… here…” His breath was hot on the back of her neck as he finger-fucked her, the wet sounds of her pussy making her blush and turning her on even more. “You’re gonna stay right here until you come all over my fingers, sweetheart. Haven’t had you in months, haven’t needed anything so bad in my life other than to feel you-”

She screamed, cutting him off, her inner muscles clamping down on his fingers as she came hard. She could barely breathe, him half-laying on her, her pleasure robbing her of air. She shuddered as he pulled his fingers out, gently this time, and petted her sore, abused pussy.

“Stay there,” he ordered, and really, did he need to order her? She felt faint and like she didn’t want to move. She let her eyes drift shut, and then he was wiping her clean with a warm, damp cloth, gently. He pulled her dress down over her ass, and lifted her up. Her ankles felt like wax, unsteady and loose. She clung to him, and he kissed her, once.

“I missed you,” he said, and that undid her. Tears raced down her cheeks and she hid herself against his chest, shuddering with deep, body-shaking sobs until her grief ran out. His arms were tight around her, and she wanted to tell him how angry she was, how much being left behind had hurt.

Instead she let him pick her up, and walk her to the bedroom. She could tell him… later. After she slept for a day.


End file.
